


Of Lesser Things

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Muggle Life, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this harsh place, he has had to learn to find the little bits of beauty, of magic, wherever he can find them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold Lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyofanotherus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyofanotherus/gifts).



> My prompt asked for Hermione as a Muggle stripper (and as such never received a Hogwarts' letter) performing for Draco, who then becomes a regular at her club. Because of the nature of the prompt, this story goes heavily into AU territory. 
> 
> Also, a very special thanks to my amazing beta, **Naeryna**! I could not have done this without you!  
>  I have made some changes since last she saw this, so any remaining mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> The title of the story comes from the _Jars of Clay_ song, 'Lesser Things'.  
>  The title of the chapter is from the _Yeah Yeah Yeahs_ song, 'Gold Lion'.
> 
> Final edits made 3-27-2015.

[ ](http://s1311.photobucket.com/user/kanames_harisen/media/dramione%20stuff/a3ac6262-0572-48c6-85f6-c9134af61d64_zpscebaea5d.jpg.html)

**.**

**.**

* * *

**[** _Wiltshire, England - 1996_ **]**  

* * *

 

“Son, I know what I ask of you is difficult, but–” 

“But what, Mother?” His fists clench tightly at his sides. “You would have me side with the damned Mudbloods!” 

Narcissa’s eyes narrow at his harsh tone, but after a few moments of sustained silence her features soften. “I would have you do whatever it takes to ensure your survival.” 

“Completing my mission will safeguard my life, and yours as well!” 

“But at what cost, Draco? Your soul?” She shakes her head and a short, brittle laugh escapes her lungs. “That’s not something I’m willing to wager.” 

“But I am.” 

“You’re only sixteen. You don’t know what it is you’re asking for.” Her face hardens and her voice bites like steel. “Or what they’re really asking of you.” 

“But–” Draco begins and then stops, startled quiet by the sharp thud of Narcissa's fist on polished mahogany. 

“But nothing! Look me in the eye and tell me that you can honestly kill an innocent man. Tell me that you can stain your hands red with the blood of countless Muggles, regardless of their inferiority, and it won’t fill you with remorse. Tell me that this path will not tear you apart like your father, piece by piece, until you are more monster than man. Can you do that?” She takes in a deep, shuddering breath. And then another. And another. Her hands tremble, but she hides them on her lap under the table and continues softly. “They have lied to us, Draco, about so many things. Yes, your father died during the mission to retrieve that damn prophecy, but it was not by Sirius Black’s wand. After… after the battle was over, Bellatrix assassinated him for his failure by order of the Dark Lord.” 

“No.” His tone is flat, unbelieving. “That can’t be true.” 

“It is, and your mission has been given to you precisely because they think that you will fail.” 

“How can you know this?” The syllables hiss sharply through his grit teeth. “How can you possibly know all this?” 

Her smile is weak, just a slight curve at the corner of her lips. “It’s not just our side that has spies.” 

“You’ve been in contact with an Order spy?” Draco asks, incredulous and running panicked hands through his hair. “Merlin, we’re blood traitors. We’re fucking blood traitors.” He hears her laugh, low and derisive, and it unnerves him even more. “Have you gone mad?” 

Narcissa doesn’t answer his question. Instead she looks him in the eye. “The Dark Lord is a half-blood leading an army of pure-blood supremacists. The whole world has gone mad.” 

Draco rests his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands. For several minutes, it’s all he can do to keep his lungs working, breathing in and out, in and out. A few more minutes pass while his brain sorts through the all information she’s burdened him with. There are choices, many choices he could make, and he can see them each as clearly as the dark brand against his pale skin. It should be harder to do, making this decision, but in the end it’s not difficult at all. There’s only one path he can take because she’s right. He doesn’t have it in him. This is a fact that he has known since his second year at Hogwarts. 

As a boy, he had cruelly mocked those of lesser blood, had verbalized his relish over the prospect of their deaths. But when the reality of it came crashing home, when the first death the Chamber claimed was a shrewd little Slytherin named Darcy, he had felt the guilt curl deep within his gut. Draco had liked her. Finding out that she was a Mudblood hadn’t changed that, much to his surprise. But he had walled up that emotion, choosing to blindly follow the path his father set before him.

Only now that his father is gone and what lies at the end of that path is clear does he admit to himself that he can’t take that next step. Whether that makes him a coward or something else entirely, he doesn’t know. 

“What do you want me to do, Mother?” 

“I’ve made arrangements with the Order for your protection. You will return to school and from there, Professor McGonagall will send you somewhere safe.” 

“What about you? The Dark Lord will kill you if he–” 

“You needn’t worry about me. I know how to play the part well.” She cuts him off and this time her smile is confident. “They won’t kill me anyway. They need our gold to fund this war and they won’t get a single galleon without a Malfoy to access the vault.” 

“Mother,” he pleads. “I won’t leave without you.” 

“Yes, you will. You will because you must.” She reaches over and grasps his hand. Desperation has her fingers digging painfully into his flesh, but he does not pull away. “We will be the snakes in the grass, Draco, hiding and waiting until our quarry thinks the threat has passed. When they have forgotten about our poison and our fangs, when they have been lulled into false security, only then shall we strike at their heels. We will wait for just the right opportunity. Until then, I want you to live your life as fully as you can and decide for yourself what it is you believe in.” 

“I know what Father believed in.” He uses his free hand to gently tip her chin his direction, studying her face. She’s a Slytherin after all, and a rather cunning one. He doesn’t want her to hide her answer to his question in cleverly constructed words. “What do you believe in?” 

She looks away from him then, turning her gaze to the portrait of her late husband that hangs above the mantle. When she finally responds, she looks so lost that it physically pains him, his throat aching with unreleased emotion. “I don’t know anymore.” 

Draco simply nods his head. 

It’s the most honest thing she’s ever said to him. 

.

.

* * *

 **[** _Phoenix, Arizona - 2005_ **]**

* * *

 

The clouds have been building, scattered groupings of voluminous white in a sea of cerulean. The fluffy masses are stained a deep charcoal underneath, heavy with seasonal moisture, but they have yet to release any of that burden and disperse. He is glad for it, knowing what their presence will add to the fast approaching display. The sun hangs low to the west, a conflagration of burnished bronze, and its fading light hits the vapors at just the right slant, causing a chain reaction to be put into motion. 

Draco’s cell phone vibrates, turning his attention from away from the sky, and the blond shifts awkwardly so that he can retrieve it from the front pocket of his jeans. After a brief look at the incoming message - _D, better be on your fuckin way. Beer tastes like piss -_ he tosses it next to him on the seat. The technology might be more convenient than an owl, but he sure as hell isn’t going bother sending a reply. Let others use it to keep him informed. That doesn’t mean he has return the favor, that he has lower himself to do everything as the Muggles do just because he’s living in their world. A wizard’s got to draw the line somewhere. 

“How much longer?” Draco gruffly asks the man behind the wheel, not bothering to hide his impatience. 

“In this traffic”– the driver gestures to the road, voice thick with a foreign accent –“at least ten minutes.” 

“I _told_ you to take McClintock instead of Rural.” 

“Sorry, Señor. It’s only pre-season and neither of our quarterbacks look too promising.” The man shrugs. “Shouldn’t be this busy.” 

Running his hands through his hair, Draco sighs. There’s not much for it. His only hope is that his friend is entertained well enough to stay put. He turns his gaze back towards the passenger-side window. 

The view should be terribly unimpressive. The landscape is painted in the muted hues of sand and olive green cacti, and the modern architecture, with its low-rising concrete and severe angles, attempts to break the monotony of the skyline while never quite succeeding. But the dazzling desert sunset overrides all that. It’s a wonder that never fails to fascinate him, how the pinks and oranges burn against the fading blue so intensely. For a few fleeting minutes, the earth creates a masterpiece. Despite all his travels, and the fact that nearly everywhere around the globe is witness to the exact same daily event, the wizard has yet to witness anything else quite like it. In this harsh place, he has had to learn to find the little bits of beauty, of _magic_ , wherever he can find them. So he watches it every day, the descent of the sun past the horizon, and lets the colours wash over him as he thinks of home. 

The cab pulls to a stop just as the last bit of pink disappears, the colour yielding to the coming darkness of night. Passing a few worn bills over the seat, he exits the vehicle. The fee is too much all things considered, but he doesn’t have the time to quibble over something so frivolous. Besides, Ramone did put up with his reticence better than most people do, quickly taking the hint and leaving Draco to his silence. The wizard supposes that not being forced to participate in banal chit chat is worth something. 

The outside air is hot and heavy in his lungs, a sensation that no matter the number of years he has spent here he knows he will never grow accustomed to. It’s August and the hundred-plus degree heat of summer – _stupid Americans and their bloody Fahrenheit_ – has combined with the humidity of the monsoon season to sweltering effect. By the time he’s reached the entrance of his destination, which is no more than a couple dozen paces from where he was dropped off, there is a light sheen of perspiration on his skin. Opening the door lets out a flood of cool air and he takes a deep breath, happy for the more temperate climate. 

After showing his I.D. – he stills gets carded everywhere, even at the ripe, old age of twenty-five – and paying the cover charge, Draco weaves his way through the club. He passes the dingy booths and scantily clad women, doubling as both eye-candy and waitresses, without a second glance. This particular establishment is new to him, but it’s familiar all the same. The guttural beat of too-loud music, the smoke obscured lighting and the scent of cheap alcohol are common themes in a dive like this, as are the women selling glimpses of their bodies in the name of entertainment. Rather than take in the sights like the rest of the many men are doing, his grey eyes search for a recognizable face. He finds who he’s looking for at a table directly in front of the stage, which is little more than a raised platform with a pole in the middle of it, framed by some faux velvet draperies. 

 _Absolutely inspiring_ , the sarcasm drips inside his head. 

Of course, there’s no act going on at the moment, so Draco has very little material by which to judge the true quality of the entertainment. Maybe he’s drawing conclusions a bit prematurely. Not that it matters much to him, though. While his companion has a penchant for the exotic arts, now evidenced by the pleased smirk on his face and the busty redhead rubbing her ass over his lap, the blond has no more than a passing interest in such things. These displays are little more than a cock tease and he’s familiar enough with his hand as it is. No need to add fuel to the fire when there’s no one at home to warm his bed. 

“Enjoying yourself, Zabini?” 

“You’ve got shit timing, you know that?” Blaise folds a twenty dollar bill over the string at the dancer’s hip and lightly smacks her backside, dismissing her. Draco raises an eyebrow and cocks his head towards the large sign posted on the wall. “Come off it, Malfoy. I barely touched her. Besides”– the man shifts his eyes to the bar where that same redhead coyly waves his direction –“Candace doesn’t mind.” 

“Still refusing to follow the rules, I see.” Draco scoffs, but there is no malice in the sentiment. “What’s Daphne think about that, I wonder?” 

“Not much,” Blaise replies with a frown. “She went to Salem to live with her sister. Had enough of me, apparently.” 

“Blaise, I’m–” 

“Save the pity party for someone who actually needs it.” He interrupts Draco's attempt at compassion, sliding an envelope across the table. “Here’s your damn letter. Arrived by owl two days ago. Your mother’s fine, by the way.” 

“You’ve seen her?” 

“No. Sorry, man.” Blaise sighs, leaning back into his chair. He takes a swig from his mostly empty bottle and grimaces. “But my contact did. Says she’s one hell of an actress.” 

“Yeah.” Draco fingers the letter in front of him. It’s plain, nondescript manila, but he can feel the warmth of magic, of _her_ magic, under his skin. “Thanks. You could have just sent it by Muggle post like usual.” 

“And miss all this?” Blaise sweeps his arms in a wide, grand gesture and smirks. It doesn’t last long, though, his face soon taking on a more serious note. “You should come back with me. We both know Sedona’s no Hogsmeade, but we’ve got a community there - our _own_ kind.” 

“We’ve been over this before, Zabini.” 

“Fine, then just think about how much money you’d save me. Between the postage I spend forwarding your letters and the cost of petrol for these visits, I’m turning into a fucking pauper.” 

Before Draco can answer, the music shifts from blaring beats to some moody understated piece, halting any further conversation. The manager, a lanky man with greasy hair, moves to center stage with a wireless microphone. 

“The Desert Moon Gentleman’s Club is proud to present...” He drawls out the words, slowly building in volume. “The Lioness!” 

The room plunges into near darkness. The dim red light from the emergency exit sign gives off just enough illumination so that Draco can see the silhouettes of men approaching the stage eagerly. The music drops off, a dramatic syncopation, and in that small space of time he can hear the patter of heavy drops falling on the roof. The storm has finally begun in earnest after the tease of an afternoon sprinkling and he knows the parched land will be glad for it. Rain is a precious commodity here. 

Overhead spotlights turn on, bathing the platform in light. There’s a warmth to the glow, an undertone of gold or amber, which Draco finds himself appreciating. Perhaps the show will exceed his decidedly low expectations. The curtains slowly open and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the tops of his thighs. A slight figure glides through the parted velvet, stopping once she reaches the center of the platform, and Draco finds himself wondering who in the hell would bother to call her a lioness. She looks entirely too… _proper_. 

The woman twirls a cane, not much unlike the one his father used to carry, and then plants the end sharply on the floor in front of her. She braces her weight on it, bending forward in such a way that highlights the fullness of her breasts. Then she slowly parades around the pivot point it has created. 

If she had been a man, Draco would have described her appearance as dapper. 

Her fitted vest, dark cloth with pinstripes, contrasts beautifully against her starched white button-up. There is a crimson tie at her throat, solid satin simplicity done up with an expert hand, and a fedora rests upon her head, hiding the hair that he assumes is tucked inside. Her heels are high and sharp, but still maintain a conservative edge in their closed-toe detailing. It is only the exaggerated hemline of her pleated skirt, a perfect match to her vest, and her thigh-high stockings that call to the woman’s occupation. 

Draco watches as she tosses the cane aside and begins to work the buttons of her vest. She peels it from her body with deliberate sensuality, dropping it behind her, and starts in on her tie. Her nimble fingers pull at it, but rather than removing it, they just loosen the knot and lift it out of the confines of her collar. The music changes again and the clacking of her heels matches the new uptempo as she struts towards the front, ripping her shirt open as she goes. Buttons fly and the pale fabric is flung to the crowd, revealing the gold lace of her bra. 

The woman moves to the pole, dancing smoothly around it. Her gyrations gradually become more lewd, grinding against it in a crude approximation of the act of sex, and it riles the masculine crowd. The ambient sound shifts again, this time to something dark and sultry, and she begins to unwrap her skirt. This process is painfully dragged out, but the reveal – the sheer gold panties that barely cover her pert ass – is worth it. Groans and catcalls rumble through the club as she bends over. Then she rises with her back still to the crowd, looks over her shoulder, and tips her hat. 

But the show isn’t over. The woman marches to the end of the stage and lithely hops over the edge. Her gaze settles on Draco and he straightens in his seat, chest tight with anticipation. Stalking towards him, her eyes glint dangerously and her lips curve into a predatory smirk. With surprising speed, she places one of her heels on the cushioned edge of his chair, right between his legs. He is hard-pressed to stifle the gulp lodged in his throat, caught between lust and the relief that she has not damaged anything important to him. Lust wins out when her hands begin to trail up her body, squeezing over her tits, to finally grip the brim of her fedora. She throws the offending object to the bartender, who catches it without difficulty, and an abundant mane of curly brown hair falls freely over her shoulders. 

 _Merlin,_ Draco thinks, _I was so fucking wrong._  

The tie is loosened further and she roughly pulls it over her head. Her legs shift as she moves to straddle him. The weight of her body on his lap has him hardening underneath her and she gasps lightly. Brown eyes widen and lock onto his steely ones. Draco stills at the intensity of it. Merlin, he just wants to grab her by the back of the head and–

That damn smirk returns to her face and now he is torn between attraction and loathing. No one has ever elicited this strong of a reaction from him before and he’s not sure how he should feel about it. But then she leans into him, placing the red loop over his head and pulling the knot tight against his throat, and his higher cognitive functions cease. Draco raises his hips to meet her hers when she grinds lightly over him, instinct taking over his reason. As the sensation overwhelms him, he grabs her thighs to steady himself – _the pads of his fingers on her warm flesh, his bare skin on hers_ – and a piercing crack resounds through the air. The electricity falters, once again cloaking the room in darkness. The storm has worsened and strikes of lightning are crashing all around the city outside. 

Her breath comes in soft pants next to his ear. “Did you feel that?” 

Draco is startled silent for a moment. The way the words roll off her tongue is so familiar that he finds himself clinging to her even more tightly. He is vaguely aware that she repeats her question, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words of his response. Finally, he hears her huff in exasperation and she pushes herself off of him. The lights flicker back on as she walks away. 

“Fuck,” Draco swears under his breath as Blaise laughs. 

His hand would definitely be getting a workout tonight. 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

Draco rests on his sofa and twirls the unopened letter in his hands, the coordinated flicks of fingers and thumbs over the envelope creating a soothing rhythm. It’s just past midnight, early by most twenty-something’s standards for a Friday, but he doesn’t mind. Gone are the days when he felt the need to be the center of attention, when he would strive to be something more than he was and his only aim was to wield great power. 

_When what he wanted most of all was to be everyone’s favorite._

Now Draco enjoys the tranquility of his modest apartment, so far removed from the chaos of the wizarding world, and the solitude of his own thoughts. Looking around his living space, he is hard pressed to find any remnants of his former life, and really, it doesn’t bother him at all. He prefers it that way, as a matter of fact. Hell, he’s even come to appreciate Muggles and their backwards way of doing things. 

The wizard likes this life, so much more than he had ever thought possible. There is a freedom here, without the weight of societal expectations and politics resting heavy on his young shoulders, which he never knew could exist. The shape of his world now is one entirely of his own creation and he’s not sure he could ever willingly give it up. But still, he misses his mother. 

Communication between them is problematic, but they deal with it as best they can. Though Narcissa no longer resides at the Manor, which now serves as Voldemort’s headquarters, she is still subject to his surveillance. Her fireplace remains disconnected from the Floo Network and anti-Apparition wards are regularly maintained around the whole of her property under the claim that these measures are for her own protection. Death Eaters come and go as they please, always unannounced. They use these ‘social visits’ as a means to search her home, trying to find some small piece of damning evidence against her. Because of this, Draco cannot even reply to her letters. He just can’t take that chance. 

Through it all, Narcissa somehow manages to regularly send him letters. Draco has one for nearly every month they’ve been apart. They arrive in heavily warded, plain envelopes, and the paper his mother writes on is interlaced with multiple types of Encryption and Confusion spells that only his genetic code can nullify. She tends to write about the mundane aspects of magical life, like the new gardening spell she learned from Witch Weekly or how Dobby fretted over her when she had a cold, but not always. Sometimes the details of the war creep into the ink of her quill; it is rare, yet it happens nonetheless. Regardless of the content, he cherishes each word. It’s a risk, even with the Order using their growing network to help her smuggle the letters out, and he refuses to take that lightly, even when the reminders of home make his heart crumble under their weight. 

Draco stills the movement of his hands and picks up the wand on the nearby ottoman. It’s not his own – his Hawthorn remains packed and unused; the Death Eater controlled Ministry has a trace on it and he can’t afford to reveal his location – but it does what he needs it to. Draco sends his magic through the wood and causes it to prick the tip of his finger. Red slowly oozes from the tiny wound, coalescing into a large drop that he smears across the back of the envelope. The blood sinks into the fibers of the paper and disappears, revealing a jade-coloured seal. 

“Familiae vincet semper,” Draco whispers as he presses his thumb into the wax. 

The old blood-based magic that protects the correspondence recognizes him and the seal breaks, releasing the parchment within. He unfolds the paper with shaking hands and the words written in his mother’s elegant script slowly rise to the surface. 

.

.

.

 _Dearest Draco,_

_I hope this finds you safe and well. I have to admit, I long to hear from you directly. It’s a selfish wish, especially under the circumstances, so I try hard to be thankful for the scraps of information my contact is able to gather about your life._

_There are very few developments here on the war front. The Order has not been able to locate a single horcrux since Dumbledore’s death last year. I send them every scrap of information that comes my way, but that is precious little these days. The crazy widow Malfoy holed up in her French chateau, broken by her husband’s death and son’s defection, receives very few visits from Death Eaters or their compatriots anymore. The Dark Lord is finally satisfied that I am no threat and leaves me and Dobby be._

_Potter continues to be brave and selfless, as is his way, but without someone to guide those qualities, he is unable to make any real difference. We have always known that Potter’s main contribution would be to the final battle. But until the Dark Lord is mortal again, the end will have to wait. In the interim, the death toll rises and, again, I find myself glad that you are not here._

_Do you remember what I told you, Draco, all those years ago? We have hidden ourselves well, you and I. We have lain still in the grass and have finally been forgotten. But we still have our fangs and I feel that before the end comes, we will have some small part to play._

_I know now what I believe in._

_I love you and I miss you terribly, but I would gladly make the same choice over again knowing that you are far from all these troubles. I know I say that every time I write. Forgive me, Son. It just never ceases to be true._

.

.

.

 

The letter flutters to the carpeted floor, making no sound when it lands. 

He’s been lying to himself. Deep inside Draco knows that he would Apparate home in a second if only his mother would ask, damn the consequences. He’s spent the past eight and a half years making the best of a bad situation, learning to fit into a world where he doesn’t belong. And he’s done it, done it well. It’s changed him, reshaped the way he views everything, and he’s grateful for that. The prejudiced little git that he was when his mother sent him here is gone.

(Though to be fair, he’s still a complete ass most of the time; even living among Muggles couldn’t change his personality).

But much of it has been a farce, him merely acting like he enjoys it here more than he really does. He’s kept up the act for so long that even he’s been starting to buy into it... until now. Her words bring with them a hope that he hasn’t had for a very long time. With his face buried in the palms of his hands, Draco cries himself to sleep. 

 _Merlin,_ he prays as he drifts off, _just bring me home._

.

.


	2. Promises and Pretty Words

**.**

**.**

* * *

**[** _Phoenix, Arizona - 2005_ **]**

* * *

It takes Draco just three days before he is making the trip back to the club.

This time when he exits the taxi, the sun has long been set. The sky is dark, bruised a deep purple, but the air blowing over his skin is humid and hot; he'll never get used to the severe climes of the desert state. Even so, Draco stands outside the door contemplating, ignoring the sticky feeling that the building perspiration is creating under his shirt. He’s not sure what he’s even doing here, why he felt the compulsion to come back. He just knows that he has to see her again. 

Maybe it’s because he needs some strange kind of closure. After leaving Blaise, his plan had been to go home and have a good wank while the sensations – _the look and feel and scent of her_ – were fresh in his mind. But Draco chose to read his mother's letter first, which threw his plan all to hell, and since then he has been unable to recapture the mood. It hasn’t stopped his dreams from being filled with images of her, though. 

“Oh, fuck it.” He growls as he roughly opens the door. He’s already here, so he might as well go in. 

The interior is the same as Draco remembers, just with fewer customers crowding around the stage. Considering it’s a Monday night, he figures that’s pretty normal. He heads to the bar to order a drink, but a light tug on his elbow makes him pause. 

“Hey, I remember you!” A feminine voices purrs in his ear. He turns to see the redhead Blaise had been so taken with – Crystal or Candy or something? – and frowns as she continues to hang onto him. “You were here a couple nights ago, right? Can I get you anything, baby?” 

 _Baby? Really?_  

Draco swallows his grimace and flashes her a fake smile. “Actually, I was wondering if the Lioness would be performing tonight.” 

“Oh, Hermione?” she asks, nodding her head at a customer waving for her attention. “She’s on in ten minutes. Need anything while you wait, sweetheart?” 

Draco doesn’t answer the woman, just walks away to get his own drink, and she glares daggers at the back of his head. But he doesn’t care. He’s not here for her anyway. 

He settles into place just as the music shifts and the old man makes the introduction. The curtains open, revealing the Lioness, and as he watches, Draco suddenly finds it hard to breathe. Nothing has changed between now and the previous show. The music and the choreography are the same and she still looks entirely too proper, but her effect on him is not lessened by the lack of variety. In fact, he finds the opposite to be true. Knowing what comes next builds a kind of anticipation in his chest; he vaguely realizes that his hands are sweating and his pulse rate has increased dramatically. Draco perches, tense and eager, on the edge of his seat. He can’t take his eyes off of her. 

Hermione hops off the stage, just as she had last time, and Draco’s breath stills as she strides towards him. When she stops, though, it is not in front of him, but rather the bloke seated at the table just to his right. Disappointment falls heavy in his stomach and for a moment Draco feels sick. But then she takes off her hat, that damn crazy mass of hair toppling over her nearly bare shoulders, and tosses it to him. 

The action is unexpected, a deviation from what he expects of her act, and only his Seeker-honed reflexes keep Draco from dropping it. Hermione’s brown eyes lock onto his and a hint of a grin lifts one side of her mouth as she drags the tie over her head. She continues to hold his gaze as she slips the fabric over the other man’s head, and her line of sight never wavers from Draco as she straddles and grinds against another’s lap. It’s the hottest thing he has ever seen and Draco is furious. 

 _Because it should be him._

He doesn’t wait for the show to finish. He simply stands up and walks out, teeth clenched and nostrils flared. Surprise lights up Hermione’s face, but she does nothing to stop him. Not that he expects that she would – she’s a professional in the middle of a job and it’s not like they even know each other – but it bothers him all the same. 

In spite of his anger, Draco is still desperately hard when he arrives home. This is not how he wants it, though. He wants her smell lingering on his clothes and the feel of her skin burned into his own. He wants her familiar accent panting in his ear and her hair brushing lightly against his neck. He wants the fantasy she created the first time, when it felt like the entire show was just for him. But she has given him none of that tonight, so he takes a cold shower and tries to forget just how much she fascinates him. 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

It sits on his desk, mocking him. Why he brought it to work with him, he has no idea. But there it is anyway, taking up precious room in his already far-too-cramped cubicle. Draco shakes his head and looks away, shifting his headset so that the microphone is positioned properly in front of his mouth. Now is not the time to dwell on infuriating women and their dapper millinery. He has business to attend to. 

_What the hell kind of name is ‘The Lioness’ anyway?_

“Good afternoon, is Elizabeth Harris available? Hello, Ms. Harris. I am calling on behalf of Dish Network with an exceptional offer that could save you a ton of money. May I ask who your current television provider is?” When he hears a soft click, Draco sighs, rubbing at the stress lines in his forehead. “Or you could just hang up on me.” 

He’s been off his game all day. Usually he meets his quota just a few hours into his shift. There’s something about his accent and well-bred manners that lends well to this occupation, especially if he makes it a point to stick to the female demographic. Draco may be arrogant and, more often than not, downright rude, but he is smart enough to turn on the charm when it suits his agenda. The job isn’t physically demanding, plus it keeps him out of the heat and the fast food business, so he’d prefer to keep it. That’s incentive enough to play nice. Besides, there’s a certain satisfaction to be gained from using his Slytherin wiles on unsuspecting Muggles. But today they just aren’t working in his favor; he still has two sales left before he can clock out. The man knows where the fault lies. He’s been distracted and it’s all because of that stupid hat. Scowling at the thing, Draco contemplates the merits of tearing it apart with his bare hands. 

On his way out the door this morning, it’d been sitting next to his keys and wallet. The sight had left him reeling for a few seconds, his mind rushing to put two and two together. Draco hadn’t even realized that he’d left the club with it, but when he’d seen the misshapen brim, finger-like indentations marring the dark felt, it’d all come back to him.

_The ride home spent in a red haze of angry arousal._

_The cold shower that had done nothing to abate his boiling-hot emotions._

_The dreams of yielding feminine flesh and his hands carding through a fierce shock of unbound hair._

He’s not sure what had possessed him to even touch the thing again, let alone carry it around with him, but his actions make him wonder if that blasted woman has bewitched him. 

“Draco! Carpool leaves in five!” Mark, who works in the adjacent cubicle, calls out to him. His co-worker rolls backwards in his chair, enough so that he can look around the partition separating them, and lets out a low whistle. “Man, you look like shit. Rough day?” 

“You’ve no idea,” is Draco’s acerbic reply. 

Mark grins. “Well, the day’s over, so just tell who or whatever’s bothering you to go screw themselves, then go somewhere and have a stiff drink.”  

“That’s your solution to everything.” 

“Yep.” The man’s smile widens at Draco’s quip. “Now are you coming or not? Chuck will leave our asses behind if we’re late and you know it.” 

“Go on without me.” Draco grabs the fedora, shooting it a look of disgust. “I’m not going home just yet.” 

“Alright, see you tomorrow.” Mark gives Draco a sloppy salute and rolls back into his own space, though not before one last parting shot. “Nice hat, by the way.” 

Draco’s nails dig into brim as he gets back to work. The sooner he can close out his remaining allotted transactions, the sooner he can return the damn thing and be free from its owner. 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” 

He holds his tongue as Hermione saunters past him in what passes for a waitress uniform here, sparkling silver spandex that bares half her ass paired with a matching backless halter, while holding a tray of empty bottles and glasses over her shoulder. His gaze follows her as she makes her way to the bar and relieves herself of the burden. A low growl fills the air when she leans forward to speak to the bartender, a teasing smile gracing her lips. Draco is surprised to find that he is the source of the sound. He runs his fingers through his pale hair in frustration. Just what is it about this woman that makes him react so strongly? 

He watches intently as the bartender refills her tray and she begins to work the room again, visiting the few populated tables in the sparsely occupied club. All he had wanted to do was to drop off the hat with one of her co-workers and avoid the troublesome woman altogether, but apparently luck is not on his side. With his initial plan foiled, Draco decides to take a seat. 

Hermione slowly makes her way to his table, completing her circuit of the room, and sets the only glass left on her tray in front of him. She props her hand on her hip, looking at him expectantly. When he raises an eyebrow at her offering, she elaborates. “It’s rum. Unless, of course, you’d rather try one of the varieties of piss-flavoured beer we currently have stocked." 

“I don’t recall ordering anything.” He sneers at her offering. “In fact, I’m only here to return something of yours.” 

Hermione’s eyes drift to the hat resting on his knee, then dart upwards to a point somewhere past his head. He sees something like worry crease her features for just a moment, but her lips quickly shift into coy smile as she grabs the fedora and positions it on her hair like a crown. Her warm hands settle on his shoulders as she drapes herself over his thighs, and he is stunned silent for a brief moment as she begins to work her body over his lap in rhythmic fashion. This is exactly what he has been wanting, _craving_ , but it doesn’t feel right. His strong sense of pride won’t accept it, not after the events of the previous night.

Draco growls with quiet menace. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  

“Do you want to talk about last night or not?” She breathes out against the shell of his ear, frustration betrayed through her tone. “Look, I’m not allowed to fraternize with customers or display any type of favoritism, especially during my shows.” 

“Which obviously means that you should give me a lap dance now,” Draco says, sarcasm dripping from every word. 

“Are you always this dense?” Hermione asks through a forced smile. “My boss is currently watching us very closely. I can’t just stop for a spot of tea and a chat, now can I?” 

“I don’t understand why you’re even making the effort. I already told you that I’m only here to return your hat.” His eyes narrow. “You’ve got it now, so you can stop rubbing your ass over my cock and be on your merry way.” 

Hermione pauses, but doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans in and speaks so softly that he can barely make out her words. “Don’t you feel it, too?” 

She grazes the pulse in his neck with the pad of her thumb and his answer, a caustic barb of denial, dies in his throat. From that tiny point of contact radiates a pleasant warmth that courses through his bloodstream, making even his extremities tingle. Draco has never felt anything like it, but he knows that he wants more. Hermione obliges without any verbal cue, wrapping both arms around his neck, and he inhales sharply through his teeth. The feeling intensifies as more of her soft bare skin comes into contact with his, as her nails scrape lightly against his scalp. 

Hermione dances over him again, the motion of her hips and pelvis mimicking something much more intimate. Draco is suddenly hard pressed to remember that this is just an act and that he needs to keep his hands to himself, though he manages. She trails one hand ever so slowly down his chest, stopping just below his navel before making the trip back up. When she repeats the gesture, this time her hand coming to rest on the buckle of his belt and her fingers tucking into his waistband, his control breaks. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, stretching the silver fabric and pulling her close. Hermione releases a sound, a soft moan, and he knows she can feel the rigid outline of his cock. She grinds against him once more, this time more firmly, and they both gasp. Draco slides his hands up, tracing her spine, and he feels a surge of exhilarating energy. 

Then the room goes completely dark. 

“Dammit, Candace!” the manager shouts from across the room. “I told you girls not to plug so many things into one outlet. You’ve tripped the damn breaker again.” A chorus of apologies sound out from various sections of the club and the man continues, placating the restless patrons. “It’s okay folks. Just sit tight and I’ll have the electricity back on in a jiffy, plus a round of drinks on the house.” 

As her boss fumbles around in dark for a torch, Draco’s arms tighten around Hermione. Slipping a hand into the hair at her nape, he grips it possessively. Lack of sight has heightened his other senses. He hears her rough panting, feels the tickle of her bushy hair on his cheek, and smells the saline of her sweat mixed with the musk of feminine arousal. Her head rests on his shoulder and, dammit, something about the way they’re intertwined feels so entirely right. Draco knows it’s crazy to think so. He barely knows her, and what little he does know is most likely just a part of her act. He also knows that his reaction is probably just a combination of hormones and the fact that it’s been forever since he’s had a proper shag, but he is drawn to her nonetheless. 

“Did you feel it?” Hermione asks again as she lifts her head. He knows that she can’t actually see his face in the pitch black room, but he has a feeling that she’s trying to find his eyes, trying to look inside him. 

Draco wants to lie, to deny it all, but something won’t let him. He settles for a compromise and nods, his cheek brushing against her forehead in the process. 

“Okay,” she says and it sounds like she is trying to work something out in her head. “Okay. Well, I think you should come see me then. Privately. Would tomorrow be good for you, say at 7:30?” 

“I suppose I could make that work.” 

“Good. There’s a blue door located in the back of the building where special guests can enter. All I need is a name to leave for security.” 

“Draco Malfoy.” He tilts his head, crooning into her ear. “And whom should I be asking for?” 

“Hermione Granger,” she says as she hops off of his lap. He reaches for her, intending to prolong their contact, but the lights come back on and her boss is now glaring at him from his spot next to the bar. 

Draco decides to cut his losses and go home. 

This time, as he climbs into bed still fully aroused, he does give into temptation – _fantasizing about his cock thrusting between her full red lips, his hands tangled up in her wild hair, and his cum shooting into her mouth_ – and it’s the best wank of his short, miserable life.  

.

.

**{ oOo }**

“Come in.” 

Hermione’s sitting behind a desk in the far right corner of the room, angled so that it faces the door. She doesn’t look up as he enters – she’s got her nose in a book and a pen in her hand, jotting down something in a notebook – so Draco takes a moment to familiarize himself with the surroundings. 

Along the wall to his left are a series of cheaply made bookshelves, the pieces of particle board sinking under the weight of their paper and ink burdens. In front of those is a short and squashy-looking sofa, framed on either side by mismatched end tables. On top of each of the tables, there are more books sorted into several neat stacks. In all, there are probably well over two-hundred volumes, more than enough to serve as a small library. 

 _So,_ he thinks _, she’s a bit of a swot, eh?_

To his immediate right, there is a chest of drawers, complete with an oversized mirror. It looks like it’s taken quite a bit of abuse over the years, probably a purchase from some kind of second-hand shop, but the dark stained wood is solid and sturdy. There are a few small bins sitting on it, keeping her cosmetics and toiletries organized, but it is otherwise free from clutter. Situated between the dresser and the right-hand wall is a free standing rack, similar to the kind they use in clothing shoppes. Several pieces of fabric are draped over its hangers, and when Draco spies a couple bits of golden lace he realizes that these are her various stage costumes. 

As a whole, the impression her quarters give off is more akin to a schoolmarm than a stripper. Everything in the room, sans her choice in clothing, screams studious and practical, favoring function over form. In looking around, Draco’s intent had been to satisfy his curiosity, solving the puzzle that is Hermione so that he would lose interest in her. But instead, he’s now more intrigued by her than before and that doesn’t sit well with him. It feels too much like giving her control. 

He then realizes that it has taken him a few minutes to survey the tiny space, but at no point during that time has she looked at him or acknowledged him. That puts him even further on edge, raising his hackles. She’s the one who asked for his company. The least she could do is give him her attention. 

“So, are you going to fucking fill me in any time soon?” 

Hermione holds up her left hand, her right hand still moving the pen across paper, and he clenches his jaw against his rising temper. But before he can decide on his next scathing remark, her wrist flicks out one last flourish and she closes the notebook, turning her dark eyes on him. She sees his annoyance and shakes her head, the hint of a smirk playing with the corner of her mouth, and her actions make Draco wonder if perhaps it had been some kind of test. 

“You can leave your wand on the dresser,” she says casually as she leans back into her chair. “I’d feel more comfortable knowing that it’s not on your person.” 

Draco’s heart instantly lodges in his throat. “ _What?_ ” 

She gives him a peculiar look, as if she is suddenly unsure of the situation. “Was I wrong then? I could have sworn that you were a wizard.” 

He pulls the wand out of the holster he has Disillusioned at his hip and points it at her. When he speaks, his voice is a low growl. “Did the Dark Lord send you?” 

“Hardly.” Her voice and demeanor remain composed, but he can see lines of irritation forming on her forehead. “Honestly, I’m just a Muggle. You can lower your wand.” 

“Not until I get some answers, dammit.” Draco steps forward into the room, his wand still trained on her should she give him reason to use it. “If you’re a Muggle, how do you know about magic?” 

Spreading her hands wide and away from her body, Hermione cautiously rises from her chair, keeping her eyes on Draco the entire time. The thin robe she’s wearing is untied and now that the woman is standing, he can see that the only thing she’s wearing underneath is a pair tiny black panties. She begins to slowly make her way out from behind the desk. The fabric shifts as she walks and the glimpse he gets of one pretty pink nipple nearly makes him forget why he is up in arms. He bites his lip and firms up his stance, but she simply settles into sofa as if this all is an everyday occurrence, lounging back and crossing her legs before gesturing for him to sit down. 

“Look, you can keep your bloody wand if it makes you feel better. You can even point it at me, if that’s what you need to do. But if we are going to have this conversation”– she throws him a look that dares him to defy her –“I will not have you skulking over me the entire time.” 

Draco considers her for a moment, looking for any signs of pretense; over the years, he’s gotten good at recognizing them. But all he sees is truth in her eyes, so he sits. He keeps his posture rigid, ready to strike, and though he lowers his wand, he does not put it away. “Go on then.” 

“I dated a wizard once, back in London. He did not take the Statute of Secrecy as seriously as he should have.” 

“That’s it? You expect me to believe that you know all this – and with the way you’re throwing terms around, you have to know a hell of a lot – because you once had a wizard for a boyfriend?” His knuckles whiten around the wood in his hand. “How daft do you think I am?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” she retorts, though her tone is more matter-of-fact than sarcastic. “You definitely aren’t a Ravenclaw. But you’re British, so I assume you attended Hogwarts?” 

“Fuck, woman.” Draco gasps, his mind absolutely reeling. “Who the hell _are_ you?” 

“You already know who I am – I’m Hermione Granger. You know, if you would stop with all your blustering and just listen to me, we’d get through this a lot faster.” She juts out her chin, her expression equal parts stubborn and defiant. “Just think about this logically for a minute, okay? If I was sent by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to harm you or capture you, or whatever other silly notion that’s going through your head, I would have done so as soon as you walked through the door. Physically, you’re obviously stronger than me _and_ you’re armed. I would have needed to use the one advantage I had – the element of surprise. And even if I had decided on a different method, I most certainly would not have said anything to you that would put you on your guard. To do so would be beyond foolish. Do I seem like a fool to you?” 

Draco scrutinizes her as she speaks, again trying to find any deception in her words or body language. But he can’t, and more than that, he can’t refute the soundness of her argument. So he makes a judgment call and hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. Standing up, Draco strides over towards the door and, with his eyes never leaving hers, he sets his wand down on top of the dresser. Then he returns to his seat, forcing his muscles to relax into a casual pose.

“Fine, but I have some questions for you. And if I don’t like the answers–” 

“Your wand is just an _Accio_ away. Seriously, I get it,” she says, with a small huff. “If you’re done with all the posturing, please ask away.” 

“How did you know that I was a wizard?” 

“I felt it.” Hermione’s eyes drift towards his hand, lingering on the tips of his fingers. “I could feel the surge of your magic through my skin.” 

“But that’s not possible,” he says, regarding her suspiciously. “Muggles can’t feel magic like that. You have to use a Charm or a Hex, and even then most still don’t make the connection unless you wave your wand in their face.” 

“That’s exactly what Colin said.” She sighs, running a hand roughly over her hair. “But in spite of all the research I’ve done, I haven’t found any other way to explain it.” 

“Well, that answers one mystery,” Draco says drily, his eyes once again on her overflowing bookcases. Recalling how engrossed she was in her book earlier, he imagines she probably wet her knickers as she dove into the world of Wizarding texts. “I assume that’s how you know so much about us. Because of your research?” She nods in the affirmative. He mulls her words over, then his eyebrows furrow in question. “But _Colin_?” 

“Yes, _Colin_. Colin Creevey, my wizard ex-boyfriend.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Do try to keep up.” 

Draco’s expression goes blank for moment, but when what she has said sinks in he laughs. _Hard_. “You mean to tell me that you actually dated Creevey? The little twat that used to follow Potter around everywhere?” 

“Don’t call him that!” 

“That would be a _yes_.” He crosses his arms and smirks, amused by the turn in their discourse. Satisfaction swells in his chest at the sight of her discomposure, the angry red in her cheeks and the fierce glint in her brown eyes. She’s been so bloody calm, so in control this entire time, while he’s been terribly off-balance. Having that flow reverse in his favor has Draco feeling confident and comfortable for the first time tonight, so he continues along in the same vein. “Tell me, where is he now? Did he leave you to join the Order as Saint Potter’s personal ass-wiper?” 

Hermione’s face blanches. “He’s dead. He was a Muggle-born, so they killed him.” 

“Merlin’s balls,” Draco says under his breath. Looking at his shoes, because he’s certainly not brave enough to look at her, he buries his fingers in his hair. “Hermione, I’m–” 

“Forget it.” Hermione cuts Draco off, then turns away from him, discreetly wiping her cheeks. “You didn’t know and I didn’t ask you here to talk about Colin anyway.” 

“Why did you ask me here, then?” 

“I want you to help me.” Hermione looks nervous, perhaps even a little frightened, her muscles gone suddenly taut under her skin. “When I couldn’t find anything in my research, I assumed that I was just having some kind of reaction to Colin in particular and forgot about it. But that’s obviously not the case. I want to know what is happening to me.” 

“And what exactly would my ‘help’ entail?” 

“Your opinions on any information I find, for one. It will be essential in developing a working theory to bounce ideas off someone who has intimate knowledge with magic and its workings.” She wrinkles her nose. “I do hope you were a decent student.” 

In return, he crosses his arms before sending her his most haughty glare. “The best in my year.” 

“Good." She gives him an appraising look, then continues. "I’ll also need you to cast spells, for obvious reasons, and due to the nature of the onset of the symptoms, we will need to test for responses to tactile stimuli.” 

“You want me to touch you.” 

“Actually,” she replies, “I will be the one doing the touching. The same rules that apply to the club will apply to any experimentation that I feel is necessary.” 

Draco stands up and paces the length of the sofa a couple times. This situation is a hell of a lot more than he bargained for. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting to come of this meeting - a private lap dance or maybe a hand job, if the attraction he felt the night before had been mutual. It certainly hadn't been this. The magical world is something that has been lacking in his everyday life, mostly by his own design. Sure, others have kept him far from the struggle in his homeland, but he is the one that has separated himself from his own kind, living in his own blissfully ignorant bubble. It’s only the tiny scraps of information contained in his mother’s letters that remind him of who he really is, what he can do. And now this woman - this infuriating, intoxicating, know-it-all of a woman - wants him to change that, forcing him to once again immerse himself in a life that he had to leave behind. 

Draco wants to run from this request. He wants to extricate her influence from his life, not welcome more of it. But that’s not his only reservation. Something about the situation, though seemingly benign, smacks of importance and he is not one for important tasks. His failure to follow through with those given to him in the past prove that. But his mother’s most recent words jostle about in his head, sticking almost agonizingly to the forefront of his thoughts – _we still have our fangs and I feel that before the end comes, we will have some small part to play_ – and he knows he won’t refuse. This is their opportunity. He doesn’t understand the how or why of it just yet, but he can feel it in his bones and in the way this Muggle woman’s touch pulls at him so fervently. There is something more at work here and though he is loathed to face it, he will. His mother has risked everything for him and now maybe, just maybe, he can take this small risk for her. 

The decision made, the wizard looks down into her eyes and releases a deep breath. “Okay.” 

“Really?” Hermione stands up and walks to him, encroaching on his personal space. They’re so close he can feel the heat rolling off of her skin. “You’ll help me?” 

“I said so, didn’t I?” 

Her fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, tugging on it gently. “Good.” 

“Don’t be too happy about it,” Draco says after seeing a grin spread across her lips. “I expect to be well compensated for my time and effort.” 

“I think that can be arranged.” Hermione’s smile turns wicked and she lets the robe slip off of her shoulders. Then she pushes him aside and walks over to her costumes. “But for now, I’m kicking you out. I’ve got to get ready for my next show.”

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from a line in the _Lorien_ song, Make the Deadeye Miss.


	3. Who We Are Instead

**.**

**.**

* * *

**[** _London, England - 1990_ **]**  

* * *

Hermione waits until her parents are fully engaged in conversation with another adult before she slips away. She knows they mean well, but she has no interest in socializing with her peers. Over the years she has realized that she doesn’t quite fit in, but that doesn’t bother her. She doesn’t care that her hair and teeth are much too big, that her tongue is too sharp, or that her intelligence far outshines that of all the other students. In fact, she takes pride in those traits that make her different. But she would rather not subject herself to the harassment that she knows will inevitably come her way if she chooses to stay. Her book sounds much more appealing. 

 _And technically_ , _I’m not breaking any rules because Father didn’t set any,_ she rationalizes. _No need to feel guilty._  

The girl skirts around the playground, sneaking behind bushes to better evade detection, and follows the path that leads farther into the park. She doesn’t have to go too far to get to her favorite spot. It’s a wooden bench nicely situated under the soothing shade of the trees. It’s perfect for her purpose since it is within shouting distance from the playground, close enough to make her feel safe, while it also shields her from the crowds visiting the park. 

She has just settled in for a comfortable read when the bench shifts under her, accommodating the weight of another person at the opposite end. Her sharp little eyes peek over the edge of her book to take in her impromptu companion. The man is probably close to her parents’ age, with greasy black hair and an uninviting scowl. He is clothed strangely, as if he were in costume. Since it is still several months until Halloween comes around, his manner of dress unsettles her. Hermione scoots as far away from him as she can get without falling out of her seat and returns to her previous occupation, though she tries to keep sight of him in her peripheral vision. The pair of them continue on like this for a few minutes, the man darkly glowering and the girl on her guard, before he clears his throat and speaks. 

“Miss Granger, I presume.” 

Hermione places her book next to her, careful to mark her spot, and turns to face him fully. “Do I know you, sir?” 

His mouth twists severely, as if he has swallowed something sour. “I don’t believe I’ve had the… _pleasure_.” 

“Then I must be going,” she replies as she stands and steps away. “It’s not proper for a child to converse with an unfamiliar adult. Good day.” 

“A very interesting reading choice for someone of your age.”

Hermione whips around to find her beloved book in the hands of the foul man. She castigates herself mentally for forgetting to take it. “That’s my book!” 

“Indeed it is.” He smiles at her, his eyes holding no warmth, as he tucks the item into the folds of his robes. “You shall have it back after we have a short talk, but only if I am satisfied with your answers. Please, sit.” 

Hermione squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, refusing to sit down. She wants her book back terribly, but she also wants to be in the position to flee if this old man reveals himself to be a threat. “What do you want to talk about?” 

His scowl deepens briefly at her defiance, but then he continues. “Do you know what a prophecy is?” 

“Of course. It is a prediction of an event, or a series of events, which will take place in the future.” 

“Correct.” She puffs out her chest at his declaration, but it doesn’t last long under his severe glare. “I have been searching for someone for many years now. For ten years to be precise. Word came to my master that this person’s uncommon intellect will be of use in the future. He has sent me to ensure the desired outcome.” 

“Then your master is a fool, isn’t he? There is no solid scientific evidence to support the validity of such a phenomenon. Divination and the prophetic arts are little more than cheap mind tricks.” Hermione places her hands on her hips. “And if you mean to imply that I am the person you’ve been searching for then you are a fool as well. I’m just a girl.” 

“There are things in this world beyond your comprehension, you insufferable little know-it-all.” The man sneers, looking down at her over the crooked ridge of his nose. “You would do well to remember that.” 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I just can’t agree with something that is not supported by facts or logic,” she says, unfazed by his insult and foul temperament. “Besides, if what you say is true, why did it take so long to find me? You obviously knew my name. You could have come to me at any time.”

“The witch responsible for this prophecy recently passed, revealing your name on her deathbed. Things are not always as simple as they appear, Miss Granger.” His dark eyes study her carefully while he speaks and she gets the feeling that he can see right through her. “Have you ever noticed any strange occurrences around you, especially when you’ve experienced strong emotions? Maybe items break or disappear without any logical reason, or fires start where there is no nearby heat source. Perhaps someone made you angry and they hurt got shortly afterwards. Does any of this sound familiar to you?” 

Hermione trembles, eyes wide and knees weak, and breathes out her answer. “Yes.” 

“Can you tell me how you explain that? Or does your logic fail you?” he asks, voice heavy with disdain. She doesn’t answer him, so he continues. “But what if I told that I could fix it so those things would stop happening? Would you accept my offer?” 

“Perhaps,” Hermione replies cautiously. Honestly, she wouldn’t even consider it if it wasn’t for her parents. But she’s seen their worried glances and heard their hushed words too many times. If there’s a chance she can relieve them of this burden, she feels she owes it to them to at least hear the man out. “I suppose it depends on your method. How do you propose to accomplish such a thing?” 

“With magic.” 

Before she can form a rebuttal, or even scream for that matter, he has her in his grasp. One hand digs into her shoulder, holding her in place, while the other points a slender piece of wood to her temple. He begins to move the twig around in intricate patterns, murmuring words that she does not recognize. She finds her tongue, her courage overcoming her fear, and asks him what she believes to be a very pertinent question. “Are you going to kill me now? Is that why your master sent you?” 

“My reasons are my own, Miss Granger,” he says, and for the first time she can see something other than darkness in his eyes. “But no, I am not going to kill you. Your safety is of the utmost importance to me and the side I serve. I simply mean to have you hide in plain sight until the time is right.” 

Hermione frowns. “I don’t understand.” 

“Of course you don’t,” he says, his tone belittling. “But you don’t have to. You just have to close your eyes and forget everything about this encounter. Everything except for the three words that will neutralize my seal…” 

.

.

 **{ oOo }**  

When Hermione wakes up, she is disorientated. She doesn't remember falling asleep or even being tired. But the sun is still high in the sky and her book is clutched tightly by her small hands, so all must be well. 

 _War of the Worlds_. 

It is one of her favorites and her multiple read-throughs show in the creases of the well-worn spine. She’s usually not much into science fiction, but the twist at the end keeps her coming back to this particular story. The idea that something as insignificant as a simple cold could have the ability to take down a host of alien subjugators excites her, resonates within her, and so she continues to read it again and again, year after year.  

.

.

* * *

 **[** _Phoenix, Arizona - 2005_ **]**  

* * *

Draco grumbles from his side of the sofa. “Come across anything useful yet?”  

It’s been a week since he agreed to help her with their quest, but they’ve done little more than read. While her collection is impressive for a Muggle, the paltry fifty-something books - with subjects ranging from gnomes to proper knife techniques in potion brewing to the history of Hogwarts - is rather pathetic. He supposes they’ve given Hermione a nice overview of what his world entails, but they lack the substance needed for their particular search. Even so, they continue to spend countless hours scouring their pages and monotony of it is making Draco tetchy. He had been promised experiments involving ‘tactile stimuli’ and compensation for his time. So far all he has received for his troubles is god-awful tea, a headache, and a raging libido. 

And yet, Draco finds himself dropping by every night. He tries to justify it by reminding himself that he'd promised he would help and a Malfoy always keeps his word, even if they often choose to twist the intent of said word, but his reasons are so flimsy that even a blind person would see through them. If he were so inclined, he could have wiggled his way out of this obligation with ease. But there’s something about Hermione that makes it impossible for him to do so.

At first he’d thought that he'd been merely letting his cock do the thinking for him. The man wants her – _to have her lithe body underneath him, screaming out his name as he fucks her_ – more desperately than he’d care to admit. It is more than that, though. He finds that he enjoys pushing her buttons, watching for the signs of her growing irritation. She is remarkably level-headed, quick to ignore the verbal jabs he throws her way, so it makes it that much more rewarding when he pushes her to break her composure. Her sharp tongue tends to come out to play then, full of dry sarcasm and thinly veiled insults. Draco never thought he’d enjoy arguing with someone, but he does. It’s better than being at his empty apartment, at any rate. 

“Well…” Her brow furrows in thought as she focuses on the book in her lap. “Is there a chance that one of your ancestors was involved with a Veela? That could explain–” 

“I said _useful._ ” Draco emphasizes his last word with no small measure of scorn. 

Hermione sends a glare his direction. “What exactly is wrong with that theory?” 

“It would be easier to tell you what it isn’t wrong with it.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him. Draco rolls his eyes in exasperation. “First of all, the Malfoy line is the purest of the pure-blood families. That means there are _only_  pure-blood wizards and witches in my genealogy. Secondly, there is no such thing as a male Veela–“ 

“That may be the traditional line of thinking, but it says right here–” 

Draco rips the book out of her hands, ignoring her protests as he throws it behind him. “And third, this trash is written by Gilderoy Lockhart, who is known to be a pompous, attention seeking, uneducated fraud. So, no, whatever is happening between us is not due to your attraction to some latent Veela traits that I very clearly do not have.” 

Hermione stares him down, her lips tightly pursed and hands curled into fists. Draco stares right back, not about to cow down when he knows that he’s right. It’s a tense couple of minutes as their wills battle in the space between them. She is the first to look away. 

“Fine,” she says tersely. “We’ll just have to keep looking.” 

Hermione picks another book from her pile and opens it. Draco crosses his arms, a smug smile curling his lips. It only lasts for a few seconds, though. She raises her head and pins him with a look, her eyes darting from him to his stack and back again.

With a disgruntled growl, he grabs another damn book. 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

It takes four more days for Hermione to find something worth exploring. 

“Draco?” she asks from behind her desk. There are multiple texts laying open around her, but she is currently engrossed in a book that he has dismissed as rubbish several times over. What possible use could _‘The Young Wizard and You: A Practical Guide for New Parents’_ be to their current endeavor? But Hermione has insisted upon being absolutely thorough, choosing to spend her time on it despite his protests. “What about accidental magic?”

“What about it?” Draco dryly responds from where he is lounging on her sofa. “You’re a Muggle and I've had control over magic since I was a child. Unless you've suddenly become magical since our first meeting, I don't see the possibility of it.”

She looks up from her book, annoyance thinning her lips. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do your theories continue to center on me? I thought we were trying to figure out what is wrong with  _you_.”

“This issue doesn’t just concern me, you arrogant git. It concerns you as well. Both of us are equally involved when the phenomenon occurs and I know you’re just as curious as I am to discover the root cause. Don’t tell me you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

“All this arguing and finger pointing is a little counter-productive, don’t you think?”

“Says the man who has yet to show any sign of being productive.” Hermione gestures towards him, the abruptness of her motion exposing her growing impatience. “You’ve done nothing today but lay about and whine.”

Draco rises and stomps over to her. He leans over her desk, hands braced on the furniture’s edge, and closes the distance between them. “You do realize that I have a day job, yeah? Between my regular work hours and the time I’ve spent here - for which I have yet to receive acceptable compensation, I might add – I’m exhausted. The least you could do is let me fucking rest if you’re going to insist on following a bloody dead end.” 

“I wouldn’t be following a ‘dead end’, as you put it, if I had access to other materials.” She speaks quietly, but there is a sharp edge to her words. “But since you are either unable or unwilling to procure any for our research, we have to do the best with what we have.” 

His heart dances about wildly in his chest, spurred on by a mixture of panic and frustration. He has survived this long by living cautiously, by keeping his business to himself and not letting anyone too close, and her presence in his life is threatening to ruin that. She asks too many questions while being entirely too open herself, and the combination throws him off-center. She is warm and witty, in spite of having a stick permanently up her arse. Most of all, Hermione makes him yearn for things that he shouldn’t, things like coming home to a beautiful woman after work or having someone to share the burden of his inner thoughts. But he knows he can't afford the price, not with his mother's life also on the line. 

“I told you the truth, I have no resources at my disposal.” 

She shuts her eyes, takes in one deep breath and lets it out slowly, her prolonged exhale ruffling his hair. Her direct gaze catches his. She moves her head closer until there's hardly any space left between them. “Are you ever going to trust me?” 

Draco finds himself at a loss for words. Hermione's question unsettles him, makes him want to answer in the affirmative. He clenches his jaw instead, clamping down on that impulse.

“Right. Well, at least hear me out on my theory." Hermione leans back into her seat and Draco blinks at the abrupt change of subject as she continues. "I’m not entirely convinced that the storm or the girls’ use of the hair dryer is what caused the electricity to go out on the occasions in question. It seems to be too much of a coincidence, not to mention I thought I felt a surge of magic just prior to each incident.” 

“Fine, it was strange. I’ll give you that.” Draco walks back to the sofa with a sigh. Resigned to the fate of listening to her nonsensical idea, he lays down and gets comfortable. Now that the adrenaline has subsided, he’s more drained than ever. “But as I’ve said before, I’ve had my magic under control since I was a child, so that makes this line of reasoning irrelevant.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Completely.” 

“Well then, Mr. Malfoy, when was the last time you’ve been intimate with a woman?” 

Draco sputters. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” Hermione stands and flounces over to the sofa. She pushes his feet to the side and settles into the corner opposite him. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good shag? Since you felt a woman’s soft skin brushing against yours or had a hand that wasn’t your own wrapped around your cock?” 

“I don’t understand how this is relevant to–” 

“I’d venture to guess that it’s been quite a while, if the eagerness of your reaction to me is any indication.” She crosses her arms, triumphant. “So, there is the slight chance that the sudden onset of sexual stimuli could have the side effect of the loss of control over your magic.” 

“Who the fuck do you think–” 

“Can you refute my assertions or offer a better theory?” She waits for an answer, her chin raised. Draco scowls but does not speak. “Good. We will begin testing tomorrow.” 

“Does that mean you’ll be touching my cock?” He spits out the question, his pride stinging.

“That,” Hermione says, a saucy grin spreading across her lips, “depends on whether your attitude improves.” 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

“So, how do we do this?” Draco gruffly asks, doing his best to appear cavalier. He doesn't want Hermione to realize that his pulse is racing at the prospect of her groping him. Knowing her, she'd only use it to her advantage. 

She had been right yesterday, of course. His temper had cooled by the time he was home and in his own bed. Since his pride was no longer on the line, Draco had been able to rationalize and acknowledge the validity of Hermione's idea. His last sexual rendezvous had been well over a year ago, and he barely remembers the woman's face. In all honesty, there had only been a handful before his last anyway, all one night stands, and none of them had caused him to feel anything other than a physical response; it'd just been another itch to scratch. He just hasn’t been in the habit of letting people get close to him. 

Yet somehow Hermione has managed to get completely under his skin, thoughts of her infiltrating his mind, body, and soul. He’s not sure what he feels for her, but he knows it’s more than just lust. So yeah, maybe his control is compromised when it comes to her, but Draco sure as hell isn’t going to admit that to her.

“I think it would be prudent to start off with some precautionary measures,” Hermione says, tapping her chin in thought. “Do you know any Containment Charms? I don’t think my boss would appreciate it if we were to damage anything in the club. I’d like to limit any and all effects of our experiment to this room, if possible. Can you manage that?” 

“You doubt my skills as a wizard?” 

“Well, I haven’t seen your wandwork in action yet, have I?” 

“So little faith.” He grumbles, but his mouth spreads into a cocky grin as he pulls out his wand. With a few practiced hand motions and an incantation, a pale blue glow shoots forth and creates a large dome inside her quarters. It shimmers for a second or two and then disappears.

“Is it still there?” she asks, poking at where she thinks it is. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course.” He casts a Tickling Charm, aiming at nothing in particular. Wispy lights flare where the spell strikes the membrane of his barrier, but they do not pass through. “Satisfied?” 

“Yes, that will do. I suppose we can get started now.” Hermione sits down, motioning for him to do the same. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Draco attempts to do as she says, but it is impossible. Now that it has come down to it, an awkward tension settles over him as anticipation and nervousness collide. His skin feels stretched too tight over his bones and his hands have gone cold. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the back of the sofa, and hopes that she can’t see what a mess she has made inside of him. “Ready whenever you are.” 

He hears the soft rustling of her thin robe sliding over the coarser material of the cushions and feels her weight shifting to rest directly beside him. A light pressure ghosts over his left shoulder and when it passes over the edge of his sleeve and onto bare skin, he can tell that it is the tip of a single finger. She draws a path across his elbow and down the length of his forearm, lingering just a bit on the fringe of his now-faded mark. Her touch is warm, sending delicious tingles through the areas where she gives her attention. It’s not the same as the times before, though. It is gentle, lacking the raw intensity that Draco had been expecting, but its influence works to calm his overwrought nerves.

Hermione lets out a strange little huff and so he opens his eyes, curious to know what prompted it. She stares at his wrist, now encircled by her hand, and a frown tugs at her lips. No closer to understanding than when his lids were shut, Draco speaks up. “What?” 

“Something’s wrong,” she says, prodding his palm. When that doesn’t create any different results, Hermione drops his hand altogether, appearing unsettled. “It feels different, like it’s weak or something. Maybe we’re losing our connection.” 

“Now who’s being daft?” 

Hermione bristles. “What are you getting at, Draco?” 

“Your big brain hasn’t figured it out yet?” He clucks his tongue and shakes his head, ignoring the hostile glare she is aiming at him. “Think about what all the other ‘events’ have in common.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Draco sighs, feigning disappointment. “You’re being too delicate in your approach. Whenever you’ve touched me before, your intent was to seduce.” 

“It was most certainly not!” she exclaims, indignant. “I was just doing my job!” 

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he says. “Your job is to sell the _idea_ of sex. I’d be a fool if I thought that you were actually trying to get in my pants.” 

Draco can see her mind working over what he’d said, internalizing the information and testing its soundness. She absently rubs a finger over the curve of her lips, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in concentration and her gaze unfocused. 

 _Merlin_ , he thinks, _she’s beautiful when she’s using that brilliant fucking mind of hers._  

Her contemplation doesn’t last very long and soon he sees a resolution reflected in her sharp brown eyes. She twists her body, pivoting on one knee while sliding the other over his thighs, and suddenly he has a lap full of warm, sexy Hermione. Her fingers undo the tie holding her robe closed and she shifts the line of her shoulders, letting the silky material slide to the crooks of her elbows. Draco’s breath catches in his throat. Her attire is the definition of comfortable simplicity, a white fitted t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama shorts, and it is the most alluring thing he thinks that he has ever seen. There is an intimacy in her choice that is not lost on him. The woman with him today is not the Lioness, but Hermione. 

“Is this what you had in mind?” 

“Not quite.” He drawls out his words through a swiftly forming smirk. His heart is racing again, though no longer from the uneasiness that plagued him earlier **.** Instead it is an intense desire to feel the mysterious connection between them. “You haven’t properly touched me yet.” 

Draco hisses as Hermione wraps one hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer. His body’s reaction to her touch has grown exponentially, flooding him with an overwhelming heat. His grey eyes lock onto her and she is staring back, eyes wide with shock. “Did you feel that?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

“Alright,” Hermione says with a pleased grin. “Shall we continue?” 

Draco barely has time to give her an affirmative nod before her mouth is on his neck, the wet heat of her tongue flicking over his pulse. And that’s all it takes. Draco groans as his blood pools south, stirring the lust in his belly. A chuckle vibrates against his throat, confirming that she is well aware of his reaction to her ministrations. A rumbling grows in his chest, the beginnings of a fierce growl, but then her lips begin their slow trek up his jawline and he forgets the reason for his irritation. 

Her body stretches out over his, the soft curves of her breasts pressed tightly against his chest as she works to overcome the difference in their heights. Hermione shifts to reach his ear and her hips roll over him, the friction sending shivers up his spine. Her teeth nip at his sensitive lobe and his control begins to break. Draco knows he’s not supposed to touch her - she made that clear when they entered into this partnership - but she’s making it damn hard not to. Her panting breath and soft gasps are they only things he can hear. The lingering scent of her shampoo is all he can smell. And her burning touch – her mouth and hands, her weight settled comfortably over him – is all he can feel. It is driving him mad. 

 _Of course_ , the devious part of his brain supplies, _she failed to set any rules today._  

Draco grabs her by the hips, fingers fisting around the soft flannel covering her ass. She opens her mouth to protest, but as he bucks his pelvis whatever she has to say is forgotten as she moans. That sound, the needy rasp, spurs him on. He drags his hands over her the top of her thighs, playing with the hem of her loose shorts. He hasn’t touched her yet, not skin to skin, but the temptation is so fucking strong. His fingers knead into her lean muscles, enjoying the way they flex under his caress, and his thumbs draw circles on the inside of her legs. Hermione lets out a sharp gasp as he brushes over her center. She tilts her hips, wordlessly asking for more and he gladly complies, increasing the pressure. Her head falls back, arching her spine, and she begins to grind into him. 

Soon her panting shifts to a keening, gradually building in urgency, and it’s rapidly becoming more than Draco can take. He’s never felt anything like this, this bond he shares with her, and he wants more. He needs to touch her, fucking _craves_ it. So he slides the fingers of one hand up the back of her thighs and under her shorts to grip her bare ass. He feels a surge of energy tear through him and with a loud pop, the room goes dark. The light bulb in her desk lamp has burst. 

Draco closes his eyes, reveling in the sensations coursing through him. The feeling of her smooth skin under his fingers and the curves of her body moving over his own is intoxicating. He pulls her closer, the firm pressure of his hand bringing them flush, and the increased contact makes him hiss. Hermione begins to plead, a series of soft half-whispers in his ear, for release. He can't help but comply.

He moves his other hand over the waistband of her pajamas, sliding underneath the thin material. She is hot and wet, and so fucking ready. Draco slips a finger gently inside and she bucks into it, her previously quiet vocalizations turning into a load moan. He adds another finger and Hermione sighs in relief, gyrating in rhythm with his ministrations. His fingers pump into her with increasing pressure, and after a few minutes he can feel the trembling of her inner walls. He knows that she is close. Draco slowly trails the fingers of his free hand up her spine and, holding her at the nape of the neck, he brings her down to him. He kisses under her jawline, making his way towards her ear, and when he reaches his destination, he sucks the lobe into his mouth and bites down. At the same time, Draco swipes his thumb over her clit, while curling his fingers inside her, and she breaks around him.

"I told you not to touch me." Hermione breathlessly chastises him, but the effect is diminished by the continued rocking of her hips over him as she draws out the last of her orgasm. 

“We got a result, though, didn’t we?” he says, a bit breathless himself. “I think I deserve some compensation.” 

“Perhaps,” she cheekily replies, her hands settling low on his abdomen. 

“My attitude has been exemplary today.” Draco’s voice struggles to maintain its steadiness as she unbuttons his trousers. “I believe you mentioned something about that last night.” 

“Yes, I suppose I did,” Hermione says, working his zipper down. She stands up and pulls the clothing, underwear and all, to his ankles. “And I always stick to my word.” 

Draco can’t see her. The room contains no windows and because there is no adjusting to the depth of darkness they’ve been plunged into, he has kept his eyes steadily shut. But he still knows that she has moved to her knees. There is a slight shifting in the air and his overwrought senses pick up on it easily. Her hands press into his skin, gliding up the inside of his thighs. His mouth goes dry in anticipation of her next move. But she’s in no hurry it seems, taking her time to explore his body, and the build-up makes his erection that much more painful. 

He groans when Hermione finally does escalate her actions. “Oh _fuck_.”  

She has managed to surprise him. Rather than feeling just the expected clasp of her hand at his base, there is also the warmth of her mouth over his tip. Draco’s head lolls back against the sofa and he closes his eyes as her lips slide up and down over his cock, taking him further in with each pass. What Hermione can’t fit inside her mouth, she strokes with her hand. It’s been so long and he’s so sensitive that he knows he won’t last long. He should be slowing her down, savoring every single second of this bliss, but his body wants release, _begs_ for it. He gropes around blindly until his hands graze over her shoulder. Following the line of her neck, Draco finds her hair and buries his hand in it. Then he uses his grip to hold her still while he thrusts, dictating the pace. 

“Hermione.” He growls, his thumb brushing under her jaw as his hold on her hair loosens. “Fuck, oh _fuck_ … Woman, I’m close, so if you–” 

Hermione takes advantage of his distraction to regain control, roughly grabbing onto his hips and taking him as deep into her mouth as she can. It sends Draco over the edge and with one last thrust, he releases his cum, pouring his hot seed down her throat. He still doesn't open his eyes, not until she has removed her lips from his cock, but when he does, he is shocked by what he sees. 

“Hermione,” Draco says, his voice as calm as he can make it, “I think you need to look in the mirror.” 

“You know, you really need to brush up on your post-coital etiquette.” 

“Just fucking do it.” 

“Fine, but you definitely...  _Oh_!” Hermione exhales as she takes in her reflection, which, strangely enough, is visible even in the darkness of the room. Every strand of her bushy hair is alight with a deep red glow, framing her face like some sort of bizarre halo. 

“You were right after all,” she whispers, her eyes wide in wonder. “It wasn’t your magic.” 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

Later that night, Draco pulls two nearly identical slim, long boxes out of his old school trunk. One contains his beloved Hawthorn wand, and the other, made to house the wand he uses now, contains three letters.

The first is to him from his mother, filled with lines of love and regret, and had been written just before he went into hiding. The other two are much older by comparison, both dated June 5, 1980. While one was addressed to Narcissa, the other was meant for both him and his mother.The shorter of these is scripted in old man Ollivander’s hand. It is a simple receipt stating that the wand - Vine wood with a dragon heartstring core - had been commissioned as a gift for the soon-to-arrive Malfoy heir, though the gift came with some very specific instructions from the commissioner. The third letter outlined those instructions.

It has been a long time since Draco read the last letter. At the time he had dismissed it as nonsense, but considering what happened earlier with Hermione, he’s no longer so sure. 

.

.

.

 _Dear Narcissa,_ _  
__Congratulations on the birth of your son! I know that Draco will be the pride of your family. I have foreseen that he has a small but vital role to play in all our futures, which is why I have sent this wand to you. He will have great need of it, but it will only be of use if it remains hidden until the appropriated time. His life may depend on the concealment of this matter, therefore I entrust it to you and you alone._

_Draco,_ _  
__This wand is yours to use for a time, but its real master will one day come to claim it. You will know her by the uncommon knowledge she possesses. Please help her remember her true self. Without her strategic capabilities, the war will rage on without an end in sight. Her wisdom will guide the wand destined to cast the finishing blow._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Ophelia Lovegood_

.

.

.

Draco drops the letter, scrubbing a hand over his face. This is definitely more than he bargained for and, in this rare instance, he hates being right. After a few minutes, he tucks some of the papers back into the box and returns the things to their place in storage. 

He leaves the Hawthorn and Mrs. Lovegood's letter on top of his nightstand. 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

“Draco, how nice of you to drop by,” she says sarcastically as he barges in without knocking. “Won’t you come in?” 

He doesn’t reply to her jab, just starts striding back and forth across the length of her small room. His stomach is in knots. Draco knows what needs to be done next, but if his suspicions are correct, it will change everything. He’ll no longer be able to bury his head in the sand, protected inside the shell of anonymity his exile affords. All this time he’s been standing on neutral ground, but he will have to choose soon. His path, while right, is a difficult one and he knows that he will be asked to prove his loyalty repeatedly. He also knows that he will do whatever it takes when the time comes, despite his deep-seated desire to run away from it all.

He’s a different person than the boy who fled his homeland all those years ago. He’s seen too much of this world – of the strange wonders created by Muggles and how, in all the ways that count, they are every bit a wizard’s equal – to let it be destroyed. He glances at Hermione, imagining what his former compatriots would do to her if their side won, and the thought boils his blood. No, he can’t go back to that way of thinking now. 

Make no mistake, though, he still believes that there is some credence to the blood purity debate and that will probably never change. Pure-blood children have the advantage of growing up in the world they are meant to belong to, raised by parents and families who have the knowledge of many generations of wizards and witches to draw upon. Of course, that doesn’t make them inherently better, just better prepared to wield magic. Once education levels the playing field, it is all up individual skill and character. It grates at him to even think it, but Draco knows that Potter is a prime example of this. The issue is one of circumstantial privilege, not class superiority. 

Draco finally stops his pacing and looks at her. Hermione is dressed in just her robe and panties, as is her wont between performances, and there is a trace of fear in her wide brown eyes. He knows he must look terrible. Sleep eluded him last night and there is evidence of that in the purple bags under his eyes. That, combined with his silence and frantic stalking, must have given Hermione the impression that he’d gone mad. He takes a moment to compose himself, breathing deeply and smoothing a hand over his mussed hair, and then he motions for her to sit. She complies, her fear replaced with curiosity. 

“I know what’s going on.” He swallows down the last of his cowardice and plunges forward. “You’ve been sealed.” 

She cocks her head to the side, brows knit together. “I don’t understand. What does that mean exactly?” 

“You’re not a Muggle, you’re Muggle-born.”  Draco squares his shoulders and faces her, the gravity of his disclosure reflected in his grey eyes. “You’re a witch.” 

Her lips part in shock, working open and shut as she struggles to find her voice. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you just say–” 

“You heard exactly what I said, dammit!” He cuts her off, vexed by her disbelief. “You’re a witch and someone has sealed your magic.” 

“And how did you come to _that_ conclusion?” 

“It just fits, alright?” Draco bites out, disquieted by the prospect of having to explain his thought process to her. Hermione is all about hard facts and logic, but what he has is circumstantial evidence and gut feeling. He should have known that she would have questions before accepting his theory at face value. Still, he has to try. “Your connection with me, and even before with Colin… it was our magic recognizing yours. The interference with the electricity and the deal with your hair? That was your magic bleeding through the seal. The more intense your emotions become, the more strain you put on that seal, and then it has to give a little to release the excess pressure. It’s the same general concept as accidental magic. So congratulations. You were right.” 

“Okay, for the sake of consideration, let’s just say your theory is correct.” Hermione calmly states, though her expression shows lingering traces of skepticism. “What is our next step?” 

“We need to pinpoint when you were sealed and, if possible, who was responsible.” Draco sits down in what has become his corner of the sofa. Now that she is at least considering his idea, he feels less anxious. “While most spells can be removed by anyone with the skill to do so, some require it to be done by the original caster.” 

Hermione hands fly up as she groans. “If I knew either of those things, our experiment would not have been needed in the first place.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” 

Her answer is firm, given without hesitation, and it makes him irrationally angry. Clenching his hands, he leaves her on the sofa and resumes his pacing. He runs a hand roughly through his short hair and snarls. “Why would you say that?” 

“What?” She snaps back, incredulous, and stands to confront him. “You don’t want me to trust you?” 

“Yes, but I was expecting you to at least stop and fucking think about it!” Draco shouts, staring her down with wild, steely eyes. “I’m not a good man, Hermione, and if you’re unable to see that then you’re not the woman I thought you were.” 

Hermione cautiously closes the distance between them. Her hand closes over one of his white-knuckled fists and the soft hum of her energy spreads through him. It diffuses some of the tension, encouraging him to loosen his fingers. She slides her hand into his open palm, giving it a light squeeze, and then drags her fingers up the inside of his arm. 

 _His left arm_. 

Pressing the flat of her hand into his skin, she stops her movement over the mark that is branded there. Draco turns away. It bothers him, seeing her innocent hand touching something so entrenched in evil. Her free hand grabs him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. 

“I am no fool. I know exactly what this is.” Her eyes are fierce, but her voice is gentle. “But I also know you. You are rude, arrogant, and condescending. You are the epitome selfishness. You have a sharp, sarcastic tongue and a quick mind that you enjoy using against others to get your way. But despite whatever terrible things you may have done in your past, the one thing you are not is a Death Eater. So stop wallowing in your misplaced guilt and tell me what we need to do.” 

Draco kisses her.

After that speech, he just can't stop himself. He means for it to be a chaste thing, a simple gesture of emotion where words won't suffice, but her eager response changes his plan. He buries his hands in her glorious hair, sliding his tongue over the seam of her lips, and closes his eyes. Hermione leans into him, pressing her half-naked body closer, and sucks his bottom lip into her warm mouth. When she gently nips at it with her teeth, Draco moans against her mouth, wanting nothing more than to continue tasting her for the remainder of the night, to take what they started yesterday to its natural conclusion. The desire to give in, to allow himself to expose his heart to someone, to _her_ , through the joining of their bodies calls to him, and he wants nothing more but to obey. Instead, he reluctantly puts some space between them. Unfortunately, there is other business that they have to deal with first. 

“I need to get inside your head,” Draco tells her, still breathless. “Just because you can’t remember it, doesn’t mean the memory isn’t there.” 

“You want to use Legilimency on me.” 

He nods, thankful that he doesn’t have to explain the complicated process further. “It’s the only way to know for sure.” 

“Alright,” she says. “Should we be sitting?” 

“Probably.” 

Draco takes out his wand as she resettles on the sofa and then he joins her. Hermione closes her eyes and he recognizes it as his cue to cast his magic. Once he is inside of her mind, it takes him a minute or so to get his bearings. But he trains his focus on anythingin her past involving the use of magic and soon he finds a thread to follow.

The most recent memories in the string are the ones involving himself, so he moves past those quickly. The next set of images are of her and the Creevey family – the younger Creevey relaying his brother's death, Colin begging her to leave England for her own safety, research dates and snogging sessions – but there is nothing useful in them. After that, there is a large chunk of time with no strange occurrences, but he continues down the path, delving deep to find the next memory. It features a much younger Hermione, maybe around ten years old, and a disagreeable face that Draco knows very, very well. He watches the event in its entirety before retracing his steps and extracting himself from her mind. 

“So?” Hermione asks, her expression eager. “Did you find anything?” 

“I did.” Draco smiles and shakes his head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “I even know how to remove the seal. It’s wonder I didn’t do it by accident.” 

She lightly slaps him across the shoulder. “Don’t leave me in the dark, you ass.” 

“Fine, just stop abusing me.” He glares at her, rubbing his arm. “An old professor of mine paid you a visit when you were a girl. Apparently there was some kind of prophecy and he was sent to ensure that you would remain safe until your skills were needed. Though to be honest, if I didn’t know that Snape was an Order spy, I’d swear he had nefarious plans. He wasn’t exactly cordial with you.” 

“I can’t remember the man, so it hardly matters,” she says. “But I do want to know more about this prophecy.” 

“The memory didn’t reveal much about that, but”– Draco digs into his pocket and pulls out the old letter from Mrs. Lovegood –“I think it may be related to this.” 

Hermione reads through the short note a couple times and frowns. “You really think this is about me?” 

“That huge brain of yours has to be good for something. So yeah, I guess I do.” He takes her hand in his. “If you believe what that letter says, you have a choice to make. You can stay here and live a normal life, or you can let me unseal your magic so that you can help that bungling Boy-Who-Lived finally end this blasted war.” 

“Do it then.” Hermione proclaims as she stands. “Remove this bloody seal.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Draco,” she says, confident, with her hands on her hips, “I bare my tits and shake my ass every damn day, all while fending off drunks and perverts, just to afford the most basic of necessities. Fighting the most powerful dark wizard of all time and his minions will seem like a vacation after the last few years I’ve had.” 

Draco rises then, pulling out the Vine wood wand, and recasts the Containment Charm around her room. When he's finished, he lifts Hermione’s hand and places the wand in her open palm. She curls her fingers tightly around it as her eyes widen. The glow returns, tinting her brown hair red, and he knows it’s time.

“It’s has been a pleasure meeting you, Hermione Granger,” he says, using the formal manners he learned as a pure-blood scion. “Forgive me for failing to properly introduce myself. I am _Draco Abraxas Malfoy_.” 

At the last of his words, an explosion of colour erupts from the end of Hermione’s wand, shades of red and pink dancing inside the bubble created by Draco’s spell. He hears a pulse of air whoosh through the room and a warm wave of her newly released magic washes over his skin, leaving it tingling pleasantly. She laughs, her delight palpable, and the initial effects of her release begin to dissipate. With a beaming smile, she throws her arms around his neck and whispers into his ear, “Thank you.” 

“Alright, that’s enough of this sappiness,” he says, a smirk lifting his lips. “Now, witch, have you come across any spells in the course of your research that you’d like to try?” 

“I’m Hermione Granger. Of course I have.” She takes a step back and confidently maneuvers her wand. “Wingardium Leviosa.” 

Mrs. Lovegood’s letter floats from its resting place on the sofa over to Draco and he takes it, folding it up and putting it away. “Impressive. So what now, Miss Granger?” 

“I think I’d like to go home and raise some hell, if you’ll join me.” 

“Front row seats to the Dark Lord’s destruction?” Draco pulls her back into the circle of his arms. “Fuck yes.” 

.

.

**{ oOo }**

They take a week to set their affairs in the Muggle world straight, using magic to pack apartments full of belongings into one suitcase a piece. Draco uses Blaise to get a message through to the Order, who in turn gives them the coordinates of a safe house. If all has gone smoothly, his mother will meet them there; it has been decided that her ruse has run the course of its usefulness, so there's no longer a point to her staying in harm's way.

Of course, there’s still a lot more to work out. Hermione will have to be given a thorough magical evaluation to check for more possible tampering and take a crash course in wielding magic; they will both have to go through a series of interviews to determine their trustworthiness. But it’s a start and that’s all that matters for now. 

Draco holds out his hand. “Are you ready?” 

Hermione slips her smaller hand into his and holds on tight. Her palm is hot and sweaty, and he can feel her quickened pulse through the connection, but she puts on a brave smile and nods her head. “Yes.” 

“Try not to get sick when we arrive, yeah?” Draco gives a her quick peck and then, with a wave of his wand, together they Disapparate.

As the magic pulls at his navel, Draco can’t help but think that the universe has a wicked sense of humor, especially when he considers how they got here and what fate has in store for them. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s returning to England with every intent of helping the war effort, hand in hand with the Muggle-born witch who is destined to decide the outcome in favor of the Light. It’s going to be a lot of hard work and there’s certain to be many surprises along the way, not all of them for the good. But Hermione is by his side and he'll soon reunite with his mother, so for the moment, he can’t wish for anything more. And the longer he lives, the more he sees, the more Draco understands one important thing.

It’s often the lesser things, the things that seem of no consequence at the time, which bring about the biggest change.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from the _Jars of Clay_ song, Trouble Is.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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